


our bodies

by neyvenger (jjjat3am)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 22:56:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10398018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjjat3am/pseuds/neyvenger
Summary: Antoine lets himself forget the goal, the impossible weight of it, and those last few minutes, racing by with the jackrabbit beat of his heart and the pull of desperation.Instead he imagines standing on that pitch and looking up at the stands singing and hugging and celebrating. His people dressed all in blue, and a heavy medal around his neck, shining gold instead of second place.or, Paul and Antoine in the aftermath of the Euro 2016 finals





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is a year late to being actually relevant, I'm really sorry. I still have a lot of feelings.
> 
> This was written for the Monthly Football prompts challenge. I've managed to incorporate all of the prompts, though the bathing kink one only as the setting.

 

 

 

The Stade de France feels too quiet around him as Antoine heads off the pitch through the tunnel.

 

There’s a distinct feeling of wrongness about it, in the distant sound of the small island of Portugal fans celebrating like a whole nation. Their voices echo off the empty seats.

 

Antoine clenches his jaw against the bitterness flooding his mouth, keeps his head high and looks everyone he meets in the eye. The good old-fashioned Diego Simeone school of facing a loss with dignity. But, with two big losses a month apart, maybe even the Mister would have shed a tear in his place.

 

Still, the thought of Simeone and his Atleti teammates is steadying. In a few weeks, he’ll be with them again and there won’t be time for brooding. The Mister will make sure of it.

 

There are just a few staff members loitering in the hallways he heads down. Their eyes are red-rimmed, but they smile at him as he passes by, say words of encouragement that he murmurs replies to, but doesn’t really register.

 

He comes upon Pat, just outside the dressing rooms. He isn’t smiling, though he schools his features out of a grimace when he sees Antoine standing there.

 

“Alright, Grizou?” he says, almost gently. Antoine nods.

 

“Just press,” he says, “sorry I interrupted you.”

 

Pat shrugs, and moves so Antoine can enter the dressing room. It’s quiet there too. There’s some music playing in the background, but it’s not really upbeat. Not Paul’s pump-up playlist. Maybe Kos’ - he likes more mellow tunes.

 

Speaking of Paul, he doesn’t seem to be in the room. Antoine looks around, frowning. Most of the guys are there, in various stages of undress. He notices that no one is wearing their medal. They’re either thrown carelessly over the benches or tucked away somewhere out of sight.

 

Antoine is still holding his in his hand. The edges of it dig into his skin. Part of him is tempted to throw it away or leave it somewhere, but it seems disrespectful. Maybe when he gets home, he’ll give it to his grandfather. He might be celebrating Portugal’s win too.

 

He tucks it away in his bag in the end, among his toothbrush and his cologne.

 

While stripping, he looks around the room again. Still no Paul.

 

Hugo catches his eyes and gives him a slight knowing smile.

 

“He’s still doing press,” he says, “I’ll go relieve him in a few minutes.”

 

Antoine nods, focusing back on his shoelaces. Something in his chest feels heavier knowing that Paul is still out there, likely answering questions about their failures. He would have stayed behind if he’d known, just so Paul wouldn’t have had to do it alone.

 

Antoine heads for the showers. They’re empty by now. He takes the individual stall at the end of the row, breathes out when the door shuts behind him.

 

He closes his eyes as the hot water hits his skin, washing away the sweat and warming his aching muscles. Just for a moment, he feels alright. The pressure in his chest eases as he breathes in the damp air.

 

Just for a moment -

 

Antoine lets himself forget the goal, the impossible weight of it, and those last few minutes, racing by with the jackrabbit beat of his heart and the pull of desperation.

 

Instead, he imagines standing on that pitch and looking up at the stands singing and hugging and celebrating. His people dressed all in blue, and a heavy medal around his neck, shining gold instead of second place.

 

Paul, smiling, lit up brighter than the stadium lights, grabbing him in an embrace, pressing a kiss to his cheek, his forehead, and his mouth, hidden by his hand so the cameras can only guess. Joy bubbling like champagne on their skin.

 

\- he hears a sound behind him and opens his eyes, turning.

 

Paul shuts the door of the stall behind him, leaving them together in the enclosed space. Antoine blinks at him through the water beating down, sees him distorted and impossibly smaller.

 

There’s a moment, where Antoine almost asks if anyone saw him come in.

 

He doesn’t. It’s not like it matters. It’s not like their teammates don’t know about this thing, this one impossible light they’ve been keeping alive with international breaks and quiet vacations far away. It’s not like they don’t know that Paul hasn’t slept in his own room at Clairefontaine for years. It’s not like Paul can hide the way he looks at him, or that Antoine wants him to.

 

There’s no universe where they’re anything less than obvious except the one in which someone notices and it ruins them both.

 

Antoine reaches out and Paul steps into it, drops his towel and lets himself be pulled into the spray. He bends down to touch their foreheads together, and the water washes away everything except the salt on their lips when they kiss.

 

The shape of Paul’s mouth is familiar beneath his. Antoine knows every centimeter of his body, but the way they fit together feels as achingly perfect as it did the first time. When he was younger, he was worried that somehow he’d get tired of this, that they’d burn themselves out someday. They still might, but not yet. Not yet.

 

There’s desperation in the way their mouths slot together, but no intent, and the kiss eventually gentles into soft presses of lips, the grip Paul has on his hips steadying instead of bruising.

 

Paul whispers something against his mouth. Antoine feels his lips shaping the words, but the sound of the water drowns out everything else. It’s okay. He thinks he understands the sentiment.

 

There’s a whole nation in mourning outside this room, and they won’t spare them blame for their mistakes. Paul can’t kiss him in the distorted reflection of a silver trophy and pass it off as an as a joke when he’s asked about it. It’s okay. They’ll get there someday.

 

They have to.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- Antoine's grandfather is Portuguese  
> \- Atleti lost the CL final about a month or two before  
> \- I am sad, no one touch me
> 
>  
> 
> [Join us for next month's prompt set!](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/)


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